


at play

by littleredcup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Exposure, Humiliation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleredcup/pseuds/littleredcup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words rattle around absurdly in his brain, but he thinks it must be so because Dean wouldn’t say otherwise, and Dean’s sure of who Sam is more often than Sam himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at play

Dean snakes a hand down the back of Sam’s shirt and grunts irritably when Sam catches him by the wrist, pushing him away.

“Not tonight,” Sam says. He’s seated on his knees between the open spread of Dean’s legs. This should be enough, if he plays his cards right. He gives Dean’s cock a tight squeeze from root to tip and watches as Dean’s eyes flutter shut, his quest for Sam’s bare skin forgotten as he relaxes again, settling both hands behind to steady his weight. He won’t lie back because he likes being able to see Sam and usually, reach for him as well.

“How can you be such a prude with my dick in your mouth,” Dean mutters. His tone says more complaint than question but his eyes are on Sam when he looks up, glittering in the dim motel lighting.

Sam shrugs. He keeps the eye contact because that part’s important for this, places his lips carefully at the base of Dean’s cock and sucks up the side, wet, lips pursed, watches as Dean’s eyes go soft and unfocused and his next question dies on his lips.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean sighs. He takes a hand to the back of Sam’s neck and encourages him to do the same on the other side, licking up sloppy and wet like it’s the best thing Sam’s tasted in days. “You been needing that baby?”

Sam keeps his eyes on Dean and hums in agreement, playing his part. He licks up the underside and below his hand as it squeezes Dean’s hard flesh. The tip leaks fluid and he licks that too, sucks the head lightly with his lips. Dean lets out a low groan. A string of curses and praise and affectionately placed slurs. _Such a slut for me, Sam. You starving for this?_

It’s been one of their longer spells because near death and newly unleashed not fully identified hellish forces were enough to dampen anyone’s libido, but Sam couldn’t say he’s felt hungry since much longer than that. The words rattle around absurdly in his brain, but he thinks it must be so because Dean wouldn’t say otherwise, and Dean’s sure of who Sam is more often than Sam himself.

Sam picks up the pace with his hand.

“Lower,” Dean says. Sam moves to suck at the base of Dean’s cock, then lower still to lave with his tongue at Dean’s balls. “There you go. Open.”

Sam opens his mouth, sucks them in gently one by one, rolling them on his tongue. Dean groans again and bats Sam’s hand away, taking his dick in his own hand.

“Both. Take them both in,” Dean says.

Sam obeys. It’s tricky so he’s careful. It stretches his mouth wide. His face goes hot and Dean laughs lowly.

“That’s it. Gonna come on your face. Eyes up,” Dean says, voice catching as his hips jerk erratically and he nears his orgasm.

“Don’t fucking close your eyes,” Dean grits out, hand a blur on his cock before its jerking in his hands and spurting, hot streaks that land on Sam’s cheek, his forehead, right across his nose and in his eyelashes. He blinks quickly, keeps his eyes on Dean’s face where he’s biting his lip and watching Sam. Sam’s close to drooling so he swallows carefully around Dean and the hot suck makes Dean give one last, low groan. He cradles Sam’s head with both hands as his cock goes soft and rubs his thumbs through the wet filth. Sam breathes through the moment. Swallows again. Breathes. Keeps his eyes on Dean.

“Let me go,” Dean says, “Suck ‘em clean. Good.”

Sam does as he says. His jaw aches. Dean watches him for a moment, quietly satisfied.

“You hungry, Sammy?” Dean asks.

Sam’s knees are starting to ache from where they’re pressed against the thin carpet. His shoulder’s cramped. He’s ready for sleep and he’s confused for all of a second before Dean takes two fingers and swipes them through the come on Sam’s face and he understands. He opens his mouth.

*

The bedroom is an incongruous mismatch of stuffed animals and soccer trophies. A pair of skinny jeans tossed on the vanity on top of stacks of paperbacks and a jumble of well used cosmetics. Missing kids made the news rather quickly when they came from the right sort of families.   

“Middle school is a wild ride,” Sam says blithely. Their host has left them to retrieve a family album. He flips through the file they’d yanked from the precinct even though he’s nearly memorized the contents. Dean doesn’t reply. Sam hopes for her speedy return. He has the distinct, gut twisting feeling that accompanies Dean’s darker moods, the act of breathing becoming a carefully controlled process. In. Out. Keep the conversation light. Or shut the fuck up. She’ll be back soon.

Dean finally grumbles a response under his breath, but Sam can’t make out the words. Dean paces from the dresser to the bed then back again. Kicks a stuffed elephant with the toe of his shoe. It lands on its side near Sam. He gives it a cursory glance before leaning down to grab it and toss it in the re-purposed laundry basket with the rest of its friends. The movement draws Dean’s attention like a shark sensing blood. He rounds on Sam, hands deep in his pocket, brow relaxing from furrowed disgruntlement to something like amusement. He stops a hands breadth from Sam, stance wide. He smiles.

“Door open?” Dean asks.

Sam glances away from Dean to the end of the room.

“Yeah.”

“Put that down,” Dean says, nodding his chin towards the file in Sam’s hands. When he pauses Dean takes it from his hands, easy, smooth, tosses it on the desk at their side. Sam had been reading by the light of the window. Early morning sun illuminating the room in a rectangle of light. He can barely make out the exterior, but he knows they’re in full view of the street outside, the neighbors.

“Take it out,” Dean says. He’s smiling. Sam goes very still, like he doesn’t understand.

“Dean.”

“Take it out. I wanna see you,” Dean says, implacably. He rocks back on his heels, steely eyed and happy. Sam thinks about Dean’s hand reaching for skin, his own arm rebuffing him. He blinks and waits and meets nothing but Dean’s silence, the tightening at his jaw that belies his easy grin, the way his eyes seem to bore into the back of Sam’s skull.

“Take your fucking dick out, Sam,” Dean says, smiling wide, like he’s said something delightful, gracious, his words a present for Sam to unwrap. Sam swallows and takes a hesitant step to the side, eyes the slightly open door like he can will their host back, album in hand, tightly strained eyes and plum dark acrylic nails. His collar goes hot with need and shame and for a wild,nauseating moment he’s bone deep sure that Dean knows, that the blackened lines on his skin are broadcasting like a beacon through the layers of starchy ironed shirtsleeves and suit, that if he reaches out Dean will slip through his fingers like smoke. Gone again because Sam can’t stop fucking up.

Dean tilts his head to the side consideringly. Sam’s fingers go to his zipper. He reaches between the slit of his boxers and takes himself out through the opening. Dean’s eyes slide down Sam’s body to his crotch. Sam stares straight ahead to a spot on the wall where a poster hangs askew, a black cat in various demonstrations of emotions. Here is cunning. Here is indifference. Across the top  _Le chat domestique et_ –meets the curling end of one corner where the paper’s pulled away from the wall, lines puckering the expanse like it’s been folded and unfolded, hung up to straighten out but yearning to return in on itself. It has the look of frozen momentum, like it might slowly crash to the floor as Sam watches. He breathes slowly to a count of four, breath stuttering when Dean finally reaches out and takes him in hand. He cups Sam’s balls and rolls them gently in his hand, then lets them go. Sam’s breath catches.

“Think she’s coming yet?” Dean asks softly. His breath ghosts against Sam’s throat. He fingers the length of Sam’s soft cock with his finger, let’s it fall, then does it again. He can’t possibly be getting off on this. Sam spares a quick glance to Dean’s crotch where there’s no telltale bulge. Dean smirks. He keeps playing with Sam slowly, cupping him, weighing him in his hand. Something rattles loose in Sam’s brain. His face feels hot enough to burst into flames.

“Dean.”

“What? I’m blocking you buddy, she won’t see anything.”

“What the fuck are we doing,” Sam grits out.

“We?” Dean says. He lets Sam go and slides his hand back in his pocket. “I’m not doing anything, you’re the one with your dick out.”

Sam’s jaw tightens and his eyes snap to Dean’s face. He’s furious so suddenly he’s almost sick with it and he doesn’t know why. He could have said no. They were just words, what Dean said, not a fucking spell or an incantation. He didn’t have a gun to his head but he’d done it anyways and anyone could see if they turned just the right way on their morning walk, at any moment the door could swing the rest of the way open and he’d be standing here with his junk out like a fucking pervert.

Sam swallows several times before he can speak, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. His jaw snaps shut. Dean grins.

“Say thank you. Then cover yourself before you get us kicked out.”

Sam’s fingers twitch at his sides. His eyes feel hot and wet.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Zip yourself up buddy, we’ve got a rabid tween on the loose.”

Dean moves off to the side as Sam zips up. He’s whistling happily and flipping through an old desk calendar when their host rushes into the room, apologies tumbling out on a fresh wave of sickly sweet perfume. Sam freezes like a deer in headlights even though he’s covered now, they’re good, there’s nothing to show otherwise than the twist of his insides and the pink in his cheeks.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” she says. Her tongue runs under her lips, cleaning lipstick off her teeth. “Hope I didn’t keep you here too long, officers.”

“Oh that’s never a problem ma’am,” Dean says with a friendly chuckle. Sam gives a jerky nod of agreement. His eyes meet the abandoned file on the desk and his fingers find it on autopilot, flipping through like he’s just thought to check something new.

“We never have a problem hanging around, as long as we can be of use. Agent Boyd will tell ya.”

Dean turns his megawatt smile Sam’s way, and their hostess follows, sensing she’s missing something in the strain of her smile, the slight furrow in her brow, uncertainty staying her tongue.

“Right,” Sam says. He clears his throat. Speaks his line.


End file.
